Wednesday, December 24, 2014

I must be honest with you. I really hate this song. However, I
hate it less now I've researched it. Here's a little back-story from Wikipedia:

"Jingle Bells" is one of the best-known and
commonly sung American Christmas songs in the world. It was written by James
Lord Pierpont (1822–1893) and published under the title "One Horse Open
Sleigh" in the autumn of 1857. It has been claimed that, even though it is
now associated with the Christmas and holiday season, it was actually
originally written to be sung by a Sunday school choir for American
Thanksgiving. However, historians dispute this, stating that it was much too
"racy" to be sung by a children's church choir in the days it was
written.

It is an unsettled question where and when James Lord
Pierpont originally composed the song that would become known as "Jingle
Bells". A plaque at 19 High
Street in the center of Medford Square in Medford, Massachusetts, commemorates the
"birthplace" of "Jingle Bells", and claims that Pierpont
wrote the song there in 1850, at what was then the Simpson Tavern. According to
the Medford Historical Society, the song was inspired by the town's popular sleigh
races during the 19th century.

As mentioned, "Jingle Bells" was originally
copyrighted with the name "One Horse Open Sleigh" on September 16,
1857. It was reprinted in 1859 with the revised title of "Jingle Bells, or
the One Horse Open Sleigh". The song has since passed into public domain.

The date of the song's copyright casts some doubt on the
theory that Pierpont wrote the song in Medford,
since by that date he was the organist and music director of the Unitarian Church
in Savannah, Georgia, where his brother, Rev.
John Pierpont Jr., was employed. In August of the same year, James Pierpont
married the daughter of the mayor of Savannah.
He stayed on in the city even after the church closed due to its abolitionist leanings.

"Jingle Bells" was often used as a drinking song
at parties: people would jingle the ice in their glasses as they sung. The
double-meaning of "upsot" was thought humorous, and a sleigh ride
gave an unescorted couple a rare chance to be together, unchaperoned, in
distant woods or fields, with all the opportunities that afforded. Sleigh rides
were the nineteenth-century equivalent of taking a girl to a drive-in movie
theatre in the 1950s and early 1960s, so there was a somewhat suggestive and
scintillating aspect to the song that is often now unrecognized.

The 1857 lyrics differed slightly from those we know today.
It is unknown who replaced the words with those of the modern version.

Dashing thro' the snow,
In a one-horse open sleigh,
O'er the hills we go,
Laughing all the way;
Bells on bobtail ring,
Making spirits bright,Oh what sport to ride and sing
A sleighing song tonight.|:
chorus :|

Jingle bells, jingle bells,Jingle all the
way;Oh! what joy
it is to rideIn a one-horse
open sleigh.

A day or two ago
I tho't I'd take a ride
And soon Miss Fannie Bright
Was seated by my side.
The horse was lean and lank
Misfortune seemed his lot
He got into a drifted bank
And we—we got upsot.|:
chorus :|

A day or two ago,
The story I must tell
I went out on the snow
And on my back I fell;
A gent was riding by
In a one-horse open sleigh,
He laughed as there I sprawling lie,
But quickly drove away,|:
chorus :|

Now the ground is white
Go it while you're young,
Take the girls tonight
And sing this sleighing song;
Just get a bob-tailed bay
Two forty is his speed
Hitch him to an open sleigh
And crack, you'll take the lead.|:
chorus :|

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

When I worked for an irrigation/landscaping company near the Dubai Trade Centre, I was provided a charming apartment in Satwa, just off what we called "Satwa High Street," quite close to Jumeirah beach. The apartment building was named, "The Pizza Inn Building" though it had a real name which I cannot remember. I was a "Satwa Sally" -- a single girl living alone and supporting myself. A married, non-working woman who lived in Jumeirah was referred to as, "a Jumeirah Jane."

Here is my apartment at Christmas, 1991. I worked really hard to get my decorated tree high enough to be seen through the window so it would be the one lone Christmas tree visible in that sandy part of town. As you will observe from the exterior shots, there was no way it was going to work. And it didn't.

Christmas tree at third floor window

Take a look at the drinks table on the left. I'm stunned to note the amount of available booze and wish I could remember if this was purchased just for Christmas or if I always stocked my bar so well. I didn't like most of the stuff I had to offer.

The Pizza Inn Building, rear view

Check out the sandy car park where I used to park my snazzy little Mazda. It's covered with buildings now.

Close up on rear view of my apartment building, nothing visible.

Look above the green awning for the second floor (third floor) window just to the left. Using English language, the shops are on the ground floor, then there is the first floor, and I lived on the second floor. In the US, the ground floor would be called the first floor so I lived on the third floor. The two French windows on the left were mine, and the square window is the Christmas tree window. Then the little window directly above the green awning was mine, and the big balcony to the right is mine. Any questions?

To give you some perspective, here are shots of the Pizza Inn Building from the side and the front. It's all changed now apparently but it was a brilliant place to live back in the early 1990s.

Pizza Inn Building on left, Satwa High Street looking towards the Trade Centre

And now, as we get closer to Christmas Day itself, here's Ebenezer Scrooge's confrontation with "The Last of the Spirits"

Scrooge with the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come

Chapter 4 - The Last of the Spirits

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it
came, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this
Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its
head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched
hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the
night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside
him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew
no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To
Come?'' said Scrooge.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have
not happened, but will happen in the time before us,'' Scrooge pursued. "Is
that so, Spirit?''

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an
instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only
answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge
feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he
found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit
paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with
a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud, there were
ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to
the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.

"Ghost of the Future!'' he exclaimed, "I fear you more
than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and
as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you
company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?''

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before
them.

"Lead on!'' said Scrooge. "Lead on! The night is waning
fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!''

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Those who have followed my ramblings about life in Libya, both from TEA IN TRIPOLI and my blogs, will know that the search for seasonal spirit during my only Christmas in that country was rigorous and futile. I've always wondered whether my mood could have been lifted if the Tripoli Players' pantomime, Puss in Boots, had been mounted before Christmas rather than in early spring. Either way, here is the program from that show, which took place in the Recreation Hall at the Oil Companies School in Tripoli.

Please note that, while I was invited to audition for this show, I politely declined, being far too shy in those days to take the stage, even though I secretly dreamed of being an actress. My name -- Berni Willett, as it was back then -- is listed on page 3 under "Make-up/Hair." This is a joke in itself: any of my theatre colleagues will confirm that my talents at hair and make-up are laughable to this day. The title, "General Dogsbody #1" might've suited me much better.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Given the frenzy of gift-giving that takes place around the holiday season, I've been researching the history of Christmas presents. I found the following in my thrift store almanack:

Gift-giving at the winter solstice goes back to the Roman festivals of Saturnalia and Kalends. At first the gifts consisted simply of twigs from a sacred grove as good luck emblems. That soon escalated, however, and food, candles, statues of gods, and small pieces of jewelry became the standard gifts. These presents were called strenae and survive still in France, where gifts called etrennes are exchanged in January. To the early Church, gift-giving at this time was a pagan holdover and therefore, severely frowned upon. However, the people would not part with it, and some justification was found in the gift-giving of the Magi and later figures such as St. Nicholas. So by the Middle Ages, gift-giving was accepted. This was especially true in the court of kings, where a formal exchange of gifts was often very carefully regulated as to the correct amount to be spent. Today, gift-giving is such an important part of our festivities that the whole year's budget has to be carefully planned to allow for the expense of Christmas presents, often with the help of a Christmas club, and retail firms count on December as their biggest sales month of the year. That's a far step from passing out a few evergreen wigs for good luck.

For the children, it made no difference how Father Christmas chose to visit them, there were over the moon with excitement.

Yvette Skinner helps Father Christmas prepare to greet the children

In those days, I struggled with the incongruity of Santa on the beach surrounded by palm trees and a lounge band; now I see only the joy of the children and the efforts of their parents to make Christmas real for them. There's no doubt that capitalism is the name of the game but at the same time, I know how hard Yvette Skinner, a brilliant organizer, and the rest of the hotel employees worked to put this together. There was something quite special happening here, though it's possible that I didn't quite get it at the time.

As I head out this morning to begin a week's worth of school presentations of Charles Dickens' A CHRISTMAS CAROL, I thought I'd share the little lexicon I distribute to help students understand the story a little better. This is also in the program for public performances.

A Christmas Carol -- Lexicon

Carol

A
song or ballad of joy celebrating the birth of Christ

Humbug

Nonsense

Parliament

The
legislature of Great Britain

Workhouses

Union workhouses:
home for the poor and destitute where people worked in exchange for room and
board; often riddled with disease and death

The City of London

Business
district of London

Knocker

A
device, usually metal and ornamental, attached by ahinge to a door,
used for knocking

A dowerless girl

Dickens deleted
the word “orphan” from this description.Apparently, Belle is in mourning (hence the black dress) due to the
death of her parents who have left her nothing.

Charwoman

A
servant hired by the day to do odd housework

Old screw

Slang
for a miser

Half a crown

Two
shillings and six pence (an eighth of a British pound in old currency)

Blithe

Happy

Next morning

St. Stephen’s Day,
the day after Christmas Day, called “Boxing Day” in England, when gratuities (or
Christmas boxes) are given to those who have provided services during the year.

Christmas bowl of smoking bishop

A
spicy punch like mulled wine (a popular tavern drink in the 18th century)

Sunday, December 14, 2014

According to Sir Thomas Malory's Morte d'Arthur, the fifteenth-century romance of the semi-mythical English king, Merlin the magician called the nobles together on Christmas Day for a sign as to who was their rightful king. There was a sword embedded in an anvil (or stone.) Whoever could draw it out would be king. All tried and failed. It was young Arthur, who knew nothing of the sword's significance, who finally succeeded. He was just trying to find a sword for his brother who'd left his own behind, and the sword in the stone seemed the handiest source.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Yesterday, I told stories at Lake Travis Community Library, one of my favorite places to tell. Morgan the librarian and I have been working together for many years, ever since the library was in a strip mall and I performed in the shop window. Now they have a grand new building which better represents the Lakeway community.

Librarians never know how many patrons will turn up for story-time but summer can be pretty busy with parents trying to find things for their children to do, and Halloween is always packed. It looked like yesterday's seasonal story-time would be a wash-out -- at ten minutes to performance time, there wasn't a child in the building and I was already telling Morgan that I'd come back do a show on another day. At the last moment, several parents with children arrived and I had a small but attentive audience for The Shoemaker and the Elves and The Baker's Dozen.

I always ask the children to join in with my stories, and both parents and children (Morgan the librarian too!) participated from start to finish. One particular little boy, who'd come along with his dad, was rapt with delight -- you might have thought he was the storyteller, so involved was he. When story-time was over, he approached me with, "Thank you for the stories. May I tell you a story now?" To be honest, I had to get back in 5:00 o'clock traffic so as to prepare for my evening show at the Austin Playhouse, Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Jersey Lily, but how could I resist such a request? It's a storyteller's role to be story listener too, and we're always encouraging children to tell tales. These are the storytellers of the future, after all.

This Kindergartner began, "'Twas the Night Before Christmas, when all through the house..." telling the poem, word for word. At one point, he forgot what came next and his little face crumpled up, eyes filling with tears. I didn't know the text well enough to prompt him so I said, "It's okay, it'll come to you..." but when it didn't and he was ready to sob, his dad said quietly, "I sprang from the bed..." And the little boy was back on track!

When he got to, "Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" he was so radiantly happy that he brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to hug him! I didn't though because I didn't want to interrupt him. It was his moment to shine!

When he'd finished (perfectly, I might add) I applauded his
presentation, and thanked his dad for teaching him. Seriously, I love my
job!

Thursday, December 11, 2014

One winter morning, Brer Fox stole into Brer
Rabbit’s garden and dug up a big sackful of his best carrots. Brer Rabbit
didn’t see him as he was visiting his friend Brer Bear at the time.
When he got home he was mighty angry to see his empty carrot-patch.

“Brer Fox! That’s who’s been here,” cried Brer Rabbit, and his whiskers
twitched furiously. “Here are his paw marks and some hairs from his
tail. All my best winter carrots gone! I’ll make him give them back or
my name’s not Brer Rabbit.”

He went along, lippity lip, clippity clip, and his little nose wrinkled
at the fragrant smell of soup coming from Brer Fox’s house.

“Now see here,” he called crossly. “I just know it’s my carrots you’re
cooking. I want them back so you’d better open your door.”

“Too bad,” chuckled Brer Fox. “I’m not opening my door until winter is
over. I have plenty of carrots thanks to my kind friend Brer Rabbit, and
a stack of other food for Christmas as well. I’m keeping my windows
shut and my door bolted, so do go away. I want to enjoy my first bowl of
carrot soup in peace.”

At this, Brer Rabbit kicked the door, blim blam! He hammered on the
door, bangety bang! It wasn’t any use. My, he was in a rage as he turned
away. Kind friend Brer Rabbit indeed! He stomped off, muttering
furiously. But soon he grew thoughtful, then he gave a hop or two
followed by a little dance. By the time he reached home he was in a
mighty good temper. Brer Rabbit had a plan all worked out. He’d get his
carrots back and annoy Brer Fox into the bargain!

On Christmas Eve, Brer Rabbit heaved a sack of stones on his shoulder and climbed up onto Brer Fox’s roof. He clattered round the chimney making plenty of noise.

“It’s Father Christmas,” replied Brer Rabbit in a gruff voice. “I’ve brought a sack full of presents for Brer Fox.”

“Oh, that’s different,” said Brer Fox quickly. “You’re most welcome. Come right along down the chimney.”

“I can’t. I’m stuck,” Brer Rabbit said in his gruff Father Christmas
voice. Brer Fox unbolted his door and went outside to take a look.
Certainly he could see somebody on the roof so he rushed back inside and
called,

“Well, Father Christmas, don’t trouble to come down the chimney
yourself. Just drop the sack of presents and I’ll surely catch it.”

“Can’t. That’s stuck too,” yelled Brer Rabbit and he smiled to himself.
“You’ll have to climb up inside your chimney, Brer Fox, then catch hold
of the piece of string around the sack and you can haul it down
yourself.”

“That’s easy,” Brer Fox cried, “here I come,” and he disappeared up the chimney.

Like lightning, Brer Rabbit was off that roof and in through the open
doorway. There were his carrots in a sack, and on the table was a fine
cooked goose and a huge Christmas pudding. He grabbed them both, stuffed
them into the sack and ran. Chickle, chuckle, how he did run.

That old Brer Fox struggled up the chimney, higher and higher. He
couldn’t see any string but he felt it hanging down so he gave a big
tug.The sack opened and out tumbled all the stones, clatter bang, bim
bam, right on Brer Fox’s head. My, my, he certainly went down that
chimney quickly. Poor Brer Fox! He’d lost his Christmas dinner and the
carrots, and now he had a sore head.

That rascally Brer Rabbit laughed
and laughed but he made sure he kept out of Brer Fox’s way all that
Christmas Day and for some time afterwards

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

In the summer of 1990, I was invited to join the Dubai Drama Group. This didn't come a moment too soon.I needed something to do, besides going to pubs, parties and balls.The Dubai Drama Group
was a blessing in easily recognizable disguise.

At first I wasn't much involved in the group productions,
just the socials, but in November 1991, this predominantly English
theatre company began preparing for ROBIN HOOD, its annual Christmas pantomime. Ah, the pantomime, a strictly British entertainment.Many professional theatres in the UK still
produce an annual panto. They're very popular
with amateur dramatic societies, or AMDRAMS, and the Dubai Drama Group was nothing if not an AMDRAM.At the auditions, it was suggested I try out for the lead role of Robin
Hood.What?No
way!I kinda wanted to be Maid Marian but
she had a solo to sing.I could carry a
tune in bucket, but honestly, the bucket was probably the best place for it.I wanted a small role, just not the back-end
of a panto cow...

I was cast as Derek - a merry man - a small "but
significant" role.I was happy as
long as I got to frolic about in green tights and jaunty jerkin!I had ten proper lines, and in one scene, I had six words, all of which were, "Well?"I was in all the Sherwood Forest scenes
and was surprised how difficult it was to be on stage when you have nothing to
say.I tended to face the audience with
my arms limp at my side, an insipid smile on my silly face. To combat this, I developed some facial expressions and practiced, "How not to Stand Around like a Gumby" at home.

At the last minute, a dance number was added: lots of thigh slapping and stepping on
and off logs, all to the tune of the Gary Glitter hit, "Do you wanna be
in my gang, my gang, d'ya wanna be in my gang, oh yeah!"A less Glittery, more miserable gang of Merry
Men, you would never wish to meet.

By dress rehearsal, I still didn't know the dance routine and
had no idea where to make my first entrance.We had a full house made up of kids from Al Noor and Asseef Schools
for the mentally handicapped.They got a free show; we got a appreciative audience, who chattered throughout and laughed at everything, whether funny or not.

Opening night was more frightening than having a machine-gun
held to my head or hiding from the Libyan Morality Police.I didn't dare eat; I'd already lost my lunch from
both ends.I stared longingly at the exit, and thought: "I could leave now.No
one would miss me, my ten lines, my six 'wells.' I don't want to be an actress; I want
to be a secretary."I heard,
"Places!" and broke into a cold sweat, a regular theatrical occurrence in years to come. I went into a kind-of
sickly trance. Then the lights went down, I took a deep breath, and stepped forward
along with the other merry men.I was completely blinded by the lights, exactly as I'd heard would happen. No worries--I didn't want to
see the audience anyway. However, after a short while, they began to emerge from the
gloom.Frozen by stage fright, I
couldn't remember a single instruction.Even my ears had stage fright; I couldn't hear anything. It's possible that I didn't say my lines.Somehow I managed to get off stage.

Our next scene: the song and dance number.Please kill me now, I thought.Our log was set stage right, ready for us to pick up as we went on stage, but no one told
me that the log had been painted black since dress rehearsal and in the
black-out, I couldn't see it.I somehow fell right
over it and onto my hands and knees. There was a lot of scrambling in the dark during which I lost my sense of direction
altogether.I kept reaching for the hand
holes on the log but it wasn't until I hit a wall that I realized the log had
gone.As the lights went up, I was still messing about in the wings when I heard my stage gang begin the song: I'd missed an entrance
in my very first show.I ran to join the routine but was so discombobulated, I never quite got into
rhythm.It was actor's nightmare, like
being naked on stage or learning lines for the wrong show.I hated myself; I knew the audience hated me
too.They were as quiet as church mice
and it was all my fault.I just wanted
to die.

It did get better (it had to, didn't it?) and then the
ad-libbing started, which was all very well for the seasoned panto peeps, but
mortifying for me.Every time a fellow
actor changed a line, even if it wasn't my cue, I'd stand there with my mouth
agape, transfixed with horror.My mind
would go completely blank.Nothing new
or extra was available to me once I was out on stage.

I never lost the stage fright but it eased off once we
mastered the dance, for which we got resounding cheers by closing night.Also by closing, I'd mastered a different way
of delivering each of my "wells" (in fact, I'd added three more) and they were making people
laugh. This made me truly happy! Word on the street was that ROBIN HOOD was the group's "best
panto ever" so I was proud to have been a part of it: my very first show.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

In England, snowfall is a regular occurrence; in Libya or Dubai, not so much! In central Texas, we sometimes get lucky and see half-an-inch of late-season snow which lasts for just a few hours. I am therefore especially fond of poetry about winter weather. Here's one of my favorite seasonal poems -- not Christmas, but seasonal by John Updike.

“December,” by John Updike

First snow! The flakes,
So few, so light,
Remake the world
In solid white

All bundled up,
We feel as if
We were fat penguins,
Warm and stiff.

The toy-packed shops
Half split their sides,
And Mother brings home
Things she hides.

Old carols peal.
The dusk is dense.
There is a mood
Of sweet suspense.

The shepherds wait,
The kings, the tree -
All wait for something
Yet to be,

Monday, December 8, 2014

That's right. Green! Who started all this breast-beating for a white Christmas? Irving Berlin.** What was he doing at the time? Having a green Christmas out in Hollywood -- writing movies for that green folding stuff. For many years I have met Berlin in the winter -- in California, Florida, Honolulu -- usually under a palm tree, never a snow-bank. Irving Berlin is always as brown as a Waikiki beach boy. How does he get that year-round tan? Dreaming about white Christmases, but staying away from them.

*Joseph Patrick McEvoy (January 10, 1897 – August 8, 1958) was an American writer whose stories were published during the 1920s and 1930s in popular magazines such as Liberty, The Saturday Evening Post and Cosmopolitan.

**Irving Berlin (born Israel Isidore Beilin, May 11, 1888 – September 22, 1989) was an American composer and lyricist of Russian-Jewish origin. Widely considered one of the greatest songwriters in American history, his music forms a great part of the Great American Songbook.

The 1942 film Holiday Inn introduced his song, "White Christmas," one of the most recorded songs in history. It sold over 30 million records and stayed no. 1 on the pop and R&B charts for 10 weeks. Bing Crosby's single was the best-selling single in any music category for more than fifty years. Music critic Stephen Holden credits this partly to the fact that "the song also evokes a primal
nostalgia—a pure childlike longing for roots, home and childhood—that
goes way beyond the greeting imagery." The song won Berlin the Academy award, one of seven Oscar nominations he
received during his career.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

I arrived in Austin, Texas, not long before Christmas 1992. In an effort to "get in the mood," I bought a ticket to a show called A TUNA CHRISTMAS, playing at the Paramount Theatre on Congress Avenue, near the Capitol. I had walked around the downtown area a few times, riding the bus from north Austin, where I was living with my penfriend, the only person I knew in America at the time. I had already "done the tour" of the Paramount Theatre, and I loved that historic building! I didn't know then that I would work there for three years in the development office, nor that I would perform as an actress in the State Theatre next door. I only knew that I wanted to witness something on that old-fashioned stage, and I'd heard good things about this Joe Sears/Jaston Williams comedy.

I dressed in my theatre finery--I had not yet learned about Austin's reputation for casual chic--and took my nose-bleed seat at a December Sunday matinee (the above photo is from a later year.) I'd like to tell you that I was as delighted as publicity had assured me I would be, but that would be a lie. Certainly, my fellow audience members, all twelve hundred of them, were helpless with laughter, tears streaming. And it was a sight to behold, with its bright, colorful set, and those two remarkable actors, playing more than ten characters apiece, male and female. I was in awe of their speedy costume changes and incredible transformations. Wow, if I could ever be as good as they, wouldn't that be something! Unfortunately, and this is extremely important, bearing in mind that the show had a real plot, I could not catch a single word either of them was saying. Whole sentences, indeed, whole paragraphs, were spoken without my understanding a thing. They were loud enough; that wasn't the problem. It was the broad Texas accents.

At the intermission, the lady sitting next to me leaned over and said, in an accent almost as thick as Sears and Williams, "How're yew enjoyin' it?" We'd introduced ourselves at the start of the show and she was over the moon to discover that I was English, telling me all about her English ancestors who'd been in Texas for generations. I think she was anxious that I should appreciate a bit of her culture. "I'm sorry," I admitted, "but I'm unable to grasp what's going on. I know they're talking English but I can't make sense of a word." She laughed long and hearty. "Yep, that'll be them accents! It's like that in small town Texas. Wait 'til you meet folks in the Panhandle. You'll never git a thang!"

I didn't have time to ask her what she meant by "the Panhandle" before the lights went down for the second act. About half-way through, I miraculously caught the rhythm of their speech, and I began to "feel" the language. By the end, I was understanding everything. "What a shame," I thought, "I never really found out what it was all about." The next day, I purchased a ticket to the following Thursday evening's show: a seat in the stalls, close to the front, and I saw these brilliant actors strut their stuff a second time. Now I followed each word (it helped to be a bit closer) and appreciated every nuance.

In 1994, I started work at the Paramount Theatre, and received complimentary seats for subsequent runs of A TUNA CHRISTMAS. I've never stopped loving the show; it brings back such memories of my early time in Austin. How I'd love to watch the masters at work again! Oh, and to bring the anecdote full circle, I spent a week performing in the Panhandle last August so I now know what my fellow TUNA companion meant.

Dear Blog Friend

My mum (in England) and I (wherever I happened to be living) used to write each other every week...snail-mail letters, of course. When we both got computers and email became popular, we wrote every day...about everything, from the weather to what our neighbors were doing, from the political situation to popular shows on the telly. When she died, not only did I miss my lovely mum, I missed our regular written conversations; and I lost my daily writing fix. Now I admit the messages were sometimes ridiculously banal but they were often hilarious and always fun to receive. So to start with at least, I'm going to imagine my blog is a note to my mum in the hope that you'll like reading it as much I liked reading her notes to me.